Back for another session in the confessional, a young woman realizes that falling is part of the journey. 

Father Don leans forward in his chair. The air of the confessional is quiet, cool, and light.

The small Polish priest is in all-black attire, save for the strip of white collar at his throat. He offers his hand to me. I take it in mine, soft. We briefly shake hands and I seat myself on the edge of the chair in front of him. I want to get in and out quickly.

"Hello, Father." I smile at him, crossing my forearms and hands over my legs to hide how short my shorts are. He smiles warmly at me and kindly does not take notice of my gesture.

"Welcome. How long has it been since your last Confession?"

"Maybe a month or so, Father."

"OK. Let's pray that you make a good Confession." He bends his head down, his soft hands folded at his knee. His muttering is nearly inaudible. I bend my head down, making up a prayer and finishing before him.

His gray-white hair is slicked back, smooth and clean, with a razor-straight part off to the right side. His frame is small, suggesting he has perhaps taken the Lenten practice of fasting too far. His shoulders and chest are the same size as the 11-year-old boys who tend to the candles and incense at Mass. There is something about him. Humility. In his face. In the quiet bend of his arms. In the slope of his shoulders and neck. My shoulders straighten in his presence. I tug my shirt down to thoroughly cover my somewhat exposed midriff. Then I begin.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

I first came to him when I moved to the apartment on Crescent Street. I called my mom to tell her how close I was to St. Isidore's, to its high spire shooting out of the highway only three streets away from my new home. I can walk there, I told her. I knew she would be pleased.

It's an old church, one of the first in Grand Rapids. Its high cathedral ceilings and large stained glass windows brightly illuminate the life-sized Stations of the Cross circling the walls of the church. The inscriptions below them are in Polish. Most of the parish is Polish, and they read in their first language easily.

I cannot read the Polish, but I don't need the Stations interpreted. The anguish in Christ's face as the weight of the cross crushes his right shoulder to the ground, the agonized twist of his mouth as his knees dig into the dirt. He has fallen for the first time. No words are needed to explain this Station to me. I often sit before it as I prepare for Confession.

There is a light bulb next to the door of the confessional. I wait for it to turn green. Red means someone is in the middle of confessing. Green means Father is available. I kneel at the pew and watch for the green light. Today, I am ready to confess my sins.

"I've been too intimate with my boyfriend," I will tell Father Don. It's always the same thing. Only last time I wouldn't confess it. Not that I wouldn't confess it, because I said it out loud to him. But I wouldn't feel bad about it.

"I don't feel guilty about it, Father," I admitted reluctantly.

Father stopped fiddling with the rosary beads in his softly pruned fingers. I could see dents where the chain connecting the beads had left their mark. He was silent, looking straight at me, waiting for me to change my mind. It wasn't changing.

"What do I do if I don't feel bad about it?"

"Well," the beads began winding around his fingers again, "you accept that it isn't the right thing to do whether you feel guilt for it or not."

I thought about what he said. I wanted to do the right thing.

"I can't confess it, Father. I don't think it was wrong."

It was a dead heat. Father Don looked at me. I looked at him. The beads were still.

"Then I can't absolve you."

I shrugged and put my chin in my hand, examining the carpet closely. I knew I couldn't do it, so I stood up.

"OK then." Father Don stood up too.

"Come back and talk to me anytime." His voice was hopeful. His eyes were full.

"OK, I will. Thank you, Father."

I walked out of the confessional that day, hoping I'd turned a new page. But I didn't. It wasn't long before I was back again with the same story. Only this time, I was ready to really confess.

"I've been too intimate with my boyfriend," I tell Father Don. I am aware of how Victorian I sound. I wish I could use the word sex, but I think I'd die in the confessional if I did.

"OK, OK." His eyes are on the carpet. His head bobs up and down slowly in understanding. He doesn't hold last month against me. I think he's relieved that I'm back.

He begins to speak slowly. "I visit the prison from time to time, you know. Priests are often called there," he tells me by way of explanation. But I already know this. He told me this three weeks ago, and three weeks before that. I know this story so well I could recite it. Instead I nod.